My Heart in Your Hands
by The Author Who Wrote Stuff
Summary: Matthew Williams can't take it anymore. He has been ignored long enough. Part of my Snapped!Hetalia series I'm working on. Rated M for over-the-top violence/gore. Not for the faint of heart.


Poker night for the Allies. Ivan's night to host. The Siberian wind howled as it swept the snow near sideways through the air. However, the men were nice and toasty inside the house. The large fire in the hearth next to the poker table provided enough warmth for Ivan, Francis, and Alfred to have stripped down to their white undershirts, and Yao and Arthur to have removed their outer layers and loosened their ties. They had also collectively demolished two bottles of vodka, adding to the warmth from within.

"_Onhonhonhon!_ I 'ave won once again!" Francis gloated as he threw his cards down and took the pot for the fourth round in a row. The others were beginning to wonder whether he was cheating -not something at all uncharacteristic, considering Versailles- but they had no evidence. "Too bad, _Angleterre,_ you were so close to finally defeating me." he smirked devilishly, gesturing toward the four of a kind.

Arthur folded his arms and sat back, glaring at him. "Again. I refuse to leave until I've beaten you."

"Zen it could be a very long night._._ _Onhonhonhon!_"

Alfred stood unsteadily as Yao shuffled the cards. "Uh, b'fore we star-this round, I gotta use the lilboysroom. Russia, cudyoo tell me where idis?"

Ivan, who had a hard time interpreting Alfred's odd phrases without his speech being slurred by alcohol, cocked his head to the left "Little... boys room? I am afraid I am not understanding you, America."

Arthur took a quick look at Alfred, then sighed as he examined his newly dealt hand "The idiot's about to chuck his biscuits."

Ivan's eyebrows came together "Chuck his... biscuits?"

"Vomit." England answered without looking away from his cards.

"Oh, I see." Ivan laughed and smiled widely, eyelids drooping slightly. He pointed to the hallway closest to them "Second door on the right."

"Thanks. I'll be ri'ba'guys." and stumbled toward the bathroom.

The remaining four chortled at the young one's lack of alcohol tolerance. Poor America was the only one in this state. The others -especially Russia- could hold their liquor very well. Though Alfred couldn't drink anyone under the table, his strength was in keeping the party going. That kid could boot and rally like no other country.

The men were silently going through their hands and refilling their drinks, when someone pounded at the door just once, startling the men. Who could it be this late at night? A second and third followed after awkward increments of time. A moment of confusion passed, then Ivan rose to answer the door. Before he could even step away from the table, the pounding started again. This time it was much, much louder. Unlike the first set of pounding, this set came from what sounded like a whole body being slammed against the door repeatedly. Russia hastened to answer it.

"The hell...?" England stood.

As Ivan was reaching for the knob, there was one final pound, which resulted in a blade poking through the door. He jumped a little, having been taken by surprise. Ivan stared at the protrusion a while, then looked over his shoulder to his guests. Other than the initial reaction, he remained relatively unphased. He was Russia, after all. It would take a lot more than a little knife to make him think twice about answering his own door.

Every one of the men in the room was horrified at what he saw waiting on the other side.

Canada.

Or, rather, a man that looked very much like Matthew, but wearing only trousers and covered in fresh gashes. Covered is not being used hyperbolically in this instance. The man was painted with his own blood. So much, in fact, that his true skin color was virtually undetectable. With the evidence presented, one could suppose he had inflicted these injuries upon himself with the dagger now impaling the door.

Arthur ran to his Dominion.

"Matthew... what happened?" he tried to reach out to touch a crater on Canada's bare shoulder, but Matthew ripped it away before his hand could make contact. Acknowledging neither, he walked past the stunned England and Russia into the house examining the ceiling. He stopped short of the poker table and made eye contact with Yao, who had been staring at him with his mouth agape.

Then his eyes went elsewhere: the poker chips, Francis' impossibly shiny shoes, the fire. He settled on the fire for now, searching into it.

Ivan couldn't tear his eyes away from Matthew's feet, which were both frost-bitten and bloody. Ivan found it oddly descriptive of his history.

Yao grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He stopped in front of Ivan.

"Thank you for hosting tonight. I will see you at the next meeting."

After glancing back once more to the bloody man in the middle of the room, he bowed to Ivan and bolted out the door.

Arthur pried the knife from the door and handed it to Ivan."Sorry, mate. I'll cover the damage." he murmured as he passed, and walked out of the room. Ivan only nodded in a delayed response. His eyes were still on Matthew, who was still bleeding all over the floor and taking in his surroundings.

During all this, Francis was simply in shock. When finally he came to, he stood.

"What... did you do to yourself, _mon cher?_"

Matthew hung his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"..._Matthieu_?" His head snapped up and his gaze bore into Francis' soul.

Matthew gestured to his red, slippery abdomen. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it is not. I am sorry. Would you please explain to me?"

He said nothing in response, just slumped into what was Alfred's chair and went back to staring into the fireplace to gather his thoughts.

During this exchange, Arthur had gone to the kitchen and retrieved a rag. When he had returned, he had opened the bottle of vodka on the poker table and dampened it. Just as Matthew opened his mouth to explain, Arthur came toward him with the rag. His reaction was immediate and extreme. He tensed up and brought his knees to his chest. His hands clawed at both armrests. His eyes went wide and wild behind his glasses.

"No. NO. NO! You think you can erase what you've done, but you can't. Let the others see it."

Arthur was just as confused as the others, but he decided to worry about what had been said later, and continue with the task at hand. "Matthew. If you don't let me clean them, they'll get infected." he approached him once again with the rag "Please allow me to-"

"I don't CARE." he roared and shrank further into his chair.

Arthur was going in with the rag again, but Francis grabbed his wrist and lowered it. "_Angleterre_, per'aps we should find ze reasons be'ind zis before we corner 'im like an _animal._" he growled through clenched teeth.

Even though Francis had technically stopped being his father after the Seven Years' War, that didn't stop the paternal feelings he had towards _Matthieu._ He always seemed to be caring for him from afar. On many occasions he had confronted Arthur for neglecting or mistreating him. However, it rarely turned into a fight, for Arthur was usually unaware of his treatment or lack thereof. Francis sought all the news he could about his former son, and prayed for him frequently. It pleased him endlessly that Quebec still spoke French.

"I was only trying to help, frog. But if you want to let them become infected, fine. Don't say I didn't try." he smacked Francis' hand away from his wrist and threw the rag of the table.

"..._Matthieu_? Please tell us what 'appened." Francis knelt down beside Matthew, who had relaxed now that Arthur was no longer wielding the rag.

"Well," he started condescendingly, "these are tally marks."

"Tally marks?"

Another sigh. "Yes." As if he should have known.

"What were you counting?" Arthur whispered as he knelt next to Francis.

The reaction he received is not the one he expected. A deep, desperate sob ripped out of his throat as he collapsed into Francis, who, taken by surprise, rocked a little trying to support the both of them while still kneeling.

"_Chacun est une instance dans laquelle ils m'ont ignoré ou oublié sur!_" he practically screamed into the other's shoulder.

France froze and made eye contact with England. Fluent in French from his years under Norman rule, Arthur understood. Francis glanced down at Matthew's arms and shoulders, then across his back. Blood. Everywhere. He didn't even want to try to count all the cuts in his skin.

No one knew what to do. Francis wanted to comfort him in some way, but patting his back or hugging would probably cause him more pain than comfort.

Arthur stood and paced as guilt consumed him.

And Ivan, poor Ivan, who hadn't moved from his spot by the door, was beside himself in a sea of awkwardness. He shuffled his feet a bit and waited for someone else to take some sort of action. Obviously Canada was disturbed, obviously something in his brain snapped like a twig, but he still had no idea what was going on. When Matthew spoke French, everyone in the room understood but him. He understood some words here and there, but he couldn't put any of the pieces together. Not only did he not understand, he wasn't at all comfortable with such a raw display of emotion. All in all, this was not Russia's cup of tea. So, he slipped out of the building unnoticed.

Arthur decided to say something. He stopped in front of the embracing estranged father and son. "Matthew..."

But he was interrupted "NO. YOU'RE MORE THAN HALF OF THEM!"

There wasn't anything he could think to say to that, no action appropriate in response. He desperately tried to force any word at all to come out of his mouth, but all that came out was a guttural choking sound. He gave up and cleared his throat, resigning himself to silence.

Having a knack for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, Alfred came tottering down the hallway. "Hey! Di dI hearMattie i-there? Heeeellllllllll yeah! Now th'party can really- ... Mattie?"

As Alfred took in this scene for the first time, his reigning emotion was disbelief. This went only went on for about a half a second before Matthew was on top of him, clawing at his face.

"LET'S REARRANGE YOUR FACE. NOW EVERYONE WILL KNOW WHO'S WHO. YOUR OUTSIDES WILL LOOK LIKE YOUR INSIDES: DISGUSTING." After that followed unintelligible shrieking.

Alfred had no sense to fight back, because he had the element of surprise against him. Arthur, however, jumped to his aide.

"GET THE HELL OFF HIM. CALM DOWN. MATTHEW, NO."

Having been pushed to the ground, it took this entire exchange for Francis to get up and try to help England pry Matthew off his brother.

"ANGLETERRE, DO IT. HEEL." France screamed over the savage screeching and cries of pain.

When an Empire "heels" a dominion or colony, it is the superlative order. Rarely overcome, being "heeled" is akin to being temporarily paralyzed by an invisible force one hundred times one's own weight. The only option is to do what the Empire commands. Only a few times in history has an inferior been able to ignore a heel. Some Empires prefered to make all their orders heels, while Arthur felt the need to spare them. He didn't want to abuse his power. However, this was an extraordinary circumstance, and America's eye looked to be in danger of coming out of its socket, so he heeled Canada without even thinking about it.

"CANADA, DOMINION OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE, I, YOUR MASTER, COMMAND YOU CEASE YOUR HOSTILITY THIS INSTANT."

Matthew went limp.

Francis dragged him off of Alfred, who was wailing with his hand clasped to the right side of his face.

Arthur knelt next to him with his best battlefield medic pokerface on. "Let me see, lad. It can't be that bad. Move your hand and let me see." he almost cooed in a calming voice.

Alfred moved his hand and the englishman's blood turned to ice. America's eye was free from its socket-y prison. Dangling by a thread of flesh, it swayed slightly as its owner hyperventilated and sobbed.

Arthur weighed his options. They were too far out in the middle of nowhere to call for any professional medical help. That left only one thing to do: he was going ot have to cut the chord connecting the eye to its former home himself. America would be left with one eye. Luckily, in all his years, he had bothered go through all sorts of medical training. However, that didn't help their lack of supplies.

"I've seen worse." Arthur said, keeping his voice even and looking into the good eye. He really had, but that didn't make this any less alarming. "Francis, fetch me a knife and some more vodka. Ivan-" he turned to where Russia had last been standing, "shit. I'll have to go get one myself."

Francis left the room. Arthur started in the opposite direction to retrieve a rag for Alfred to bite on as he severed the optic nerve. He stopped in front of the couch to which Canada had been dragged. He bent down extremely close to his face, almost as if he were about to kiss him. Instead he hissed "You will pay for this." and added all of his imperial power to the next word: "Stay."

As soon as he could no longer hear his superior's footsteps, he began to howl his lamentations into the ceiling. Each vocalisation of pain was louder than the last. It got to the point where he was alternating between thundering and choking on tears.

The crying came to a halt. Matthew Williams took in deep breaths. He drowned his distractions in the oxygen, letting himself be dragged down, down back to the his surroundings. He had to do this. With excruciating effort, he began to push himself up out of the couch. He forced himself into a standing position, then started toward his whimpering twin. Each step felt like a ton of bricks were tied to each of his feet. More oxygen. This time, it pushed him up, up from the floor, so he could take a step. Sweating with the effort, he felt like demons were clawing at his chest. _How ironic._ He thought. It was as if they knew. He finally reached the recumbent America and looked down at him.

Alfred could only manage a "Mattie, why?" as his brother knelt before he was skewered by his own brother's bare hand.

The only way to explain the sound he made is that it was only the kind of sound one would hear from the inhabitants of hell being torchured God knows how. Honestly, humans rarely have to express the amount of pain, shock, and panic of their own heart being ripped out.

Alfred not believe that someone's hand was in his torso. The sensation was that of a series of muscle spasms in his abdomen. As Canada's hand made its way to his heart, he felt it burrow between his organs, occasionally puncturing one with his untamed fingernails. When he felt the claw curl around his heart, his outcry exploded into hyper-mode. This was it.

The sound cut off and went into a regular bloody-murder scream as Alfred beheld the sight of his own still-beating heart in someone's hand.

Then, he was gone.

Hey, guys! There's a chapter 2 coming. I didn't leave ya hanging.

Any French speakers out there, please tell me how to make what Mattie said make more sense, if I did it wrong.

For the fellow English speakers, he said something along the lines of "Each mark is an instance in which I've been forgotten or ignored!"

Let me know how I can make it better!


End file.
